The Darkness Within

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty One

Kira

The upgrade in living arrangements isn't much, but it comes with a bedroom door that locks from the outside, bathroom that locks from the inside, and a working—if slightly run down—shower.

Two guards, fully armed and wearing Kevlar vests, escort me to my new room from the basement, eyeing me with open disdain as I discreetly catalogue every floor we go up, hallway intersection we pass, or person we see. I don't bother to hide my limp or hurt ankle—the slow pace gives me a chance to examine my surroundings, and I don't mind if my captors assume I'm too weak to fight back.

It doesn't take a genius to know that if they have the chance, they'll tear at me like a pack of rabid wolves. Either for killing one of their own when I first got snatched, or for being a female in this rundown, atrociously-maintained compound. I don't bother thanking them when they shove me into my room with such force I nearly fall, before slamming the door, and throwing a lock mechanism behind me.

The room is strongly reminiscent of a military bunker—metal bed at the head with a dingy bedframe and sheets tucked so neatly you could bounce a quarter off them. A matching metal nightstand, with a shadeless lamp beside it.

I spare a cursory glance at the dresser on the wall next to the bed before limping my way into the bathroom, shutting the metal door, and locking it with a decisive click. On the counter lies a first aid kit—courtesy of my uncle, no doubt—that's surprisingly well-equipped with instant ice packs, ace bandages, anticeptic ointments, sterilizing wipes, and even a suture kit.

My eyes hone in on to the little black kit like a magnet. If Mikhail didn't double check, he might have left a pair of scissors in there. It's possible if he truly bought my damsel in destress act; misogyny is still at large in this part of the world, women often being viewed as property and arm candy rather than sentient beings with the potential to turn the patriarchy upside down.

Leaning heavily on my uninjured leg, I unzip the kit and find a gleaming silver pair of sharp, surgical-grade scissors. A weapon. If I have to defend myself, I now have an edge—the scissors are sharp pointed and small enough to be easily concealed. I leave them in the suture kit now, resolving to find a place to conceal them once I'm cleaned up.

A glance in the mirror hanging above the sink informs me that even if I wanted to tend to my many scrapes, bruises, and very swollen foot, first I need to scrub off the excessive amounts of dirt caked onto my face and body. I look like I was dragged face-down between locations while unconscious. Entirely possible, considering I put a bullet in one of my kidnappers brains.

My father's daughter, indeed.

It takes twenty minutes under piping-hot water with dismal pressure, scrubbing at my skin with the single bar of soap provided, before a road map of my injuries becomes evident. The overwhelming emotions of the last day have distracted me from noticing that though I'm still moving, Sergei's home collapsing on top of us and the subsequent dog fight I had in the backseat of a car took its toll. My ribs are covered in blooming blue and purple bruises that span down my navel, my legs look like I went five rounds with a rabid beast in a no-holds-barred, to-the-death fight, and my swollen ankle is comparable to two baseballs together, the skin covered in varying shades of blue and black. On the inside of the foot is a jagged, ugly-looking cut that's seeping blood. I don't even remember getting it in the commotion.

I use the hotel-like mini bottle of shampoo to wash the dirt out of my hair, step out of the shower, towel myself dry as best as I can, and then set about fixing up my body as much as I'm able. The worst of the cuts along my arms and legs—some having reopened during my vigorous scrubbing—get sterilized and covered with bandages. I contemplate whether or not I need to stitch up the worst cut on my foot, but opt for a few butterfly bandages under gauze, wrapped snugly in the makeshift cast I create using a sturdy bandage going from the ball of my foot to above my ankle. I tighten it, fasten it with metal clips, and stand to test my weight on it. The wrapping helps—though there's still pain, it doesn't feel quite as unstable. If absolutely necessary, I might be able to run on it.